[Note: "squawk" is also another name for a Yellow-crowned Night Heron.]

You're the judge of broken,while the aging men are homeless,as true Harlem kings are throneless,and all's relative to the eldest generation.There, they don't "play chess,"their only subjects being trees;they call it "Livin' in Deep wood."And though perhaps they know the lesser limit of 'Get By,'guaranteed – they've glimpsed an upper bound of freedom,as one could dub these games "Talk through/amongst their liege;"each move, their only trace—nah, score of lineage.

You're the judge of seasonof these storms of deviationover inlaid squares on a city block—concrete like a capture only after it's had...and with graffiti marking territoryin tacit urban words... like the scent of urineto the build' of some dog;but it's more a tattoo in its lasting,and in that way, little less than suicide—permanence noting a temporary mood.

The tempests' eyes circle in focus,as though the queen's an ice cream truck,her music – a solo over sirens... and other such caveats,with little kids on fitting bikes being concentration—of attention, as at that time they anticipate a sign from her eminent direction,her worth being the taste of a puddin'-pop.

And it comes in the form of a squawk,a glare in their thought signifying the initiation of action,maybe as with a woman with something of yellow in her hair.It is a woman; and he need not say but move her,while drawn onlookers find some charm...with no luckand crowns resigned to a test where none is needed.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.